


Jubilee

by Clamdiver, Pearlybj



Series: Troll Casper [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: ;), Castration, Hand Jobs, M/M, Ownership, Political Intrigue, Possessive Sex, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentabulges, Xeno, john & dirk suck at quadrants and romance in general, naughties are in the second chapter, perceived infidelity, very public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:25:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clamdiver/pseuds/Clamdiver, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearlybj/pseuds/Pearlybj
Summary: Melting trolls, murderous journalists, bizarre technology, and on-stage hand jobs: the HIC wanted a party to show off her power and her new boytoy not this circus.





	1. Chapter 1

There she is, the latest bitch about to throw her unprepared body in the middle of the entourage of buffoons. A self proclaimed expert in the occult and the very first pansponge doc, in a sweep she’ll be known across the Empire as the Seawitch. Rosary La’lan.  


Hurled herself right into the heart of the Empress’s 612th Jubilee, held inside of the cozy home of the grand bitch herself.  


She’s scrolling through her phone, but her eyes peer over the top of it. She’s watching the Tempeste, and not a single detail escapes her eye. His bouncy mannerism, the excess jewels and skin, the angry pouts he gives the crowd. She’s all over that tiny storm, reading his whole life like cheap erotica and adding her own notes in the margins too.

 

He plucks up a squishy mass from one of the exhibit tables and starts picking at it with a claw.

 

“Hey. Put that down, Jeanne. Yer gonna break it.” That’s the poor Stringer talking. Jeanne is gonna get him killed some day.

 

The Tempeste resumes pouting and sets down... some type of grubware.

 

“Aww, I was just gonna turn it on for you.”

 

An old, old troll steps in and explains, “It’s a parasitic storageslug. It doesn’t turn on unless it’s suckered to the underside of a high performance stag computing and wrestling beetle. See! It’s all explained on my poster here. Real fancy-spanking tech courtesy of urs truly.”

 

Well. The troll doesn’t look old. Choice ass, silky white tresses, uncracked skin, a mind sharper than a blade. Wait shit, does hair faded white count as looking old? When was the last time a troll survived a geriatric molt, anyways? Forget it. Just picture whatever looks best without making everyone involved more than moderately uncomfortable. Think tight hacks and tighter leggings.

 

Anyways, she’s known as the Tinkerer. Trolls fight to the death over her military grade stealth tech. There’s really no need for her to be at an expo like this. Her blood runs deep blue, and everyone here knows who she is, including the Empress. Aka, she’s a total catch. Good for Dirque.

 

Responding to the Tinkerer, the Tempeste grumbles to himself, “I knew that.”

 

The other two continue their work in companionable silence. Jeanne rocks back and forth on his heels, hovering over the large puppet-faced troll.

 

“Hey. Hey, Dirque. Lemme do something, come on!”

 

The older troll snorts and waves a dismissive hand in his direction.

 

“Ye can go over there infronta the stand ‘n tell us how it’s lookin’ or somethin’. Other than that, ye can go bother someone else.”

 

Before the tiny tyrant barks back what is probably a nasty retort, the Tinkerer amends with,

“Aw, come on Dirky. U don’t gotta be that mean. Why not let him setup the network switch in the meantime? Would u like that, Johnny?”

 

“What?! No! That’s a job for internwigglers on day one. I know I’m not super smart or anything, but I can set up one shitty caterlinked module for a shitty display for a shitty Jubilee.”

 

Roxxie makes a soft expression, not something anyone would expect to see on a troll that has lived through so many sweeps. Not in an Empire that wears blood like a cozy sweater.

 

“Hey. No need to get upset, sweetheart. How about this? Take the key for my sexy transporter. I’ve got a few pressure cannons in there that the Empress would love to see.”

 

Dirque snatches the key from her. “Don’ encourage him. He’ll get covered in fuckin’ grease and prolly blow somethin’ up. I don’ have time to get him prettied up again before his speech.”

He has a point, and Roxxie knows it. All gentle-like, with her claws turned away, she places a hand on Dirque’s shoulder.

 

“Srry, buddy. I kinda forgot ur a full-time retainer for the kiddo. Maybe it was a lil’ mean of me to ask for ur help today.”

 

Her claws are so close to Dirque’s neck. There isn’t another soul in the empire he’d let that close to him. Okay, well maybe a soul, but not a _live_ troll.

 

“I’m his wrigglesitter, the only one. I’ll have my hide flayed and tanned if I screw around with him today. And don’ worry about it. Ye can ask fer my help anytime.”

 

“I’m right here, you know!” Jeanne yells.

 

The troll grabs the storageslug and throws it at another stand. Oh hell yeah, sweet aim. It’s a direct hit.

 

In what is no doubt the crown jewel of the days festivities, that one little storagegrub latches onto the side of a cotton candy machine. The thing abruptly stops spinning; momentum takes it down. There goes the powerstrip it lands on. Every booth in the area save for Roxxie’s loses power.

 

Three things happen at once, and damn do they make for one beautifully constructed troll Rube Goldberg machine. Grubbutter spills out of a dispenser (Open was the default setting? Fucking morons.), the little psionic with an ass for a face wakes up (he’s powering the brand new intersolar command radio), and Jeanne gets a nervous case of the winds. You can probably see where this is going.

 

Ass-troll is still stupid from induced sleep (poor fucker), heads straight for the grubbutter. Which is to say, nowhere near it. The wind is tossing the smell in completely the wrong direction. The troll charges headfirst into a recording booth, and it’s all dominos from there. (Why couldn’t they spare the music? Someone finally bred a grub that lives long enough to play a song more than once. Anything but the rad mixes, gog dammit.)

The final display knocks into a tanker. There’s a lot of shouting and scrambling. One unsuspecting troll is completely and utterly hosed by the tanker, the entire multi colored batch spills on her. It’s practically a scene out of goddamn troll bukake banaza, the poor girl. Some onlookers shield their eyes. Prudes.

 

Public sex would have been preferable to the tanker, honestly. Whatever unholy rainbow cocktail was in there melts the troll down to a gelatinous pile of goo.

 

The owners of the tanker quickly try to calm the panicking crowd, assuring them that not only can the cocktail grow a fantastic garden but can also be used to eradicate all threats from the lawnring.

 

“Errr..”

 

A snort makes both Jeanne and Dirque turn around to see the indigoblood troll trying to hold back a giggle-fit, making her whole body tremble.

 

“Aww, gosh damn, Jeanne, ur just too much!” Roxxie says. “U really need to come along when Dirque visits me. It’d be a treat tastier than cake!!”

 

The tiniest blip of pride glows inside of Jeanne’s belly before he catches himself and viciously squashes it down. Putting on the haughtiest fucking airs he can muster, the Tempeste sneers.

 

“Thank you for the invitation Tinkerer, but I’m way too busy for that _._ Lots and _lots_ of things to do when helping run an Empire, you know?”

 

Dodging the jab like a pro, the Tinkerer smiles patiently.

 

“I hear u, boss. U can’t always make time to mess around like me and my big’ol buddy here.”

 

Dirque sees it before Roxxie does, the smallest flare of Jeanne’s facial fins along with a clenched fist. Before the Tempeste can throw any royal tantrums, Dirque grunts.

 

“Listen, brat. Unless ye wanna listen to those poor bastards complainin’ about the mess ye just made, I suggest ye go cool off somewhere until its time for yer speech.”

 

Pulled from his ire, the smaller troll looks around to see a great deal of other patrons and staff whispering to one another; trying and totally failing to look like they’re not staring at him.

 

Fuck, he hates these crowded events, hates it even more than leaving his palace.

 

“Ugh, fiiiiiiiine,” the Tempeste huffs. As if Dirque were the one being inconvenienced by him being there. Douche.

 

He turns around and begins to stamp away until the Stringer shouts, “Gotta tell me where yer gonna be first, dumbass!”

 

Face flushing a dark pink, Jeanne glares back at Dirque’s smug countenance.

 

“I’m going to the Nursery!”

 

“Don’t let me be the one to come after ye. Watch the clock, an’ show up early for yer speech. Remember it ain’t me who’s gotta put up with the Compasse from here to eternity.”

“We’ll see you later, kay, Johnny?”

Jeanne theatrically rolls his eyes.

 

_“Whatever.”_

 

Like some kind of troll sea, the nearby asskissers scramble to part for Jeanne as he scampers out of both sights of the adults.

 

But not of Rosary’s.

 

///

 

He’s rather short for his age, disappearing in the crowd. Only the Tempeste’s hair pops up occasionally as he stops and stares at some random thing or another. Too bad his height doesn’t save him from Rosary. Once she catches the scent of her prey, the poor bastards only get as far as she wants them to.

 

It takes going through multiple exhibits—several of which Rosary hopes to come back to—in both wings of the palace until she finds a good spot to corner the Tempeste.

 

The clicking of her heels echoes throughout the room, a death chime just for Jeanne. There’s only one hella bored looking guard on duty within the Nursery. The other guests have wandered to the main hall to observe a demonstration if the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ are from outside are anything to go by. The boisterous conversations and racket from the other displays are lowered to a murmur in the background.

 

The lights in the Nursery are soft, reflecting off of each ornately gilded, glass habitat. It gives the room a sort-of ethereal feel. Classy. Rosary could almost appreciate the gaudy decor were she not hot for some royal tail. On his tail.

 

Fantastic creatures from other galaxies fill the cages, lifeforms beyond the imagination of even her dubious bestiaries. Naughty tentacles and multiple eyes are nothing compared to these damn things. The strange inhabitants go about their business crawling, floating, and fluttering respectively, oblivious to the world around them. Lucky them.

 

Each biome is organized based on the location of the conquered solar system; reverse Daedric A to Z order.

 

However, what catches her keen eye is the mop of black hair standing still in front of one habitat from the Slippy system. Yeah. It’s never been a secret that the Compasse has a perchant for naming star systems after dumb shit.

 

With quick fingers, she sends her contact a confirmation.

 

_I am about to engage the target. You know what to do should I fail._

 

After adjusting her hair and dress, Rosary sidles up next to the Tempeste. Rumble spheres are out and ready to play. Figuratively speaking of course. Never play with rumble spheres, kids, unless you love a freshly squeezed squirt of acid into your mouth.

 

Leaning on the railing separating the guests from the glass, she pretends to read the sign and waits. And waits.

 

Rosary takes a cursory glance to her left in an attempt to gauge the expression on the royal’s face. The softly glowing light from the tank reveals pinched brows and a bitten cheek, his hands grip the railing tensely. What could he be thinking about?

 

Shit. Oh shit.

 

It sinks in for Rosary that the terror of all psionics, of seafarers and landwellers alike, is just standing right in front of her.

 

A million and one thoughts go through her mind whilst organizing them based on credibility of prior gathered intel and utter bullshit. Her contacts sure could use an upgrade, that’s for damn sure. It’s been so hard to find escaped psionics willing to divest any information regarding their run ins with the Psicopomp.

 

You can’t fuck this up, La’lan, she reminds herself. Its now or never; say something dammit!

 

“They are quite beautif-”

 

“Which one is the girl salaman and which is the boy?”

 

The fuck?

 

“I- Beg pardon, your Highness?”

 

“I mean, it’s the big ones who are the girls, right? Or should be? But, Fef told me that in many species the guys are bigger. That’s kind of neat I guess, but still kind of weird, right? The mothergrub wouldn’t lay very many eggs if she were smaller than me.”

 

This. What?

 

“Is there a reason you expect me to know whether this is a mating pair or what type of sexual dichotomy this species experiences?”

 

“You just read the sign?” The terror winks at her.

 

“...I did not.”

 

“Yeah, you did. Unless it's me you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes!”

 

Shit, looks like the mission is a total failure already. Time to abscond while she still has her head on her neck plates

 

“Oh, pardon me, I thought you were the Custodifeeder, I must be go-”

 

“Not that I think its weird or anything!” Jeanne winces. “Okay well, maybe it is weird, but I don’t really mind for some reason? Um. Probably because you’re not like-”

 

He makes a vague sort of waving gesture with both hands. Rosary waits.

 

“Glaring at me?” He continues, “So, are you having fun? At the Jubilee I mean, not really here, because this place is super lame.”

 

“Does Her Inexhaustible Compassion’s private Nursery not suit your tastes, Highness?”

 

The Tempeste’s nose wrinkles.

 

“Hell no. I hate this place! It’s so boring. Well, these guys right here are awesome.” He points at a salaman popping a large bubble. “But everything else sucks!”

 

Rosary attempts to bite back a surprised snort at the outburst. No, this definitely isn’t what she was expecting. Hmm. Maybe she could work with this.

 

“What, pray tell, does the Tempeste find so distestable about this exhibit? All of the inhabitants appear to have plenty of space and their habitats are well cared for.”

 

“Ugh, that’s exactly it! They’re all mindlessly floating around in these big stupid cages. They don’t do anything for themselves! I came here to get away from the crowd, but it’s almost even worse looking at all these aliens? Every day is the same with nothing new happening ever! I don’t know, it just makes me kind of pissed off.”

 

By the time the Tempeste finishes, his tone has dropped to a near growl.

 

If there is one thing her informants learned about this tool, it is that pissing him off will cause one’s own swift and very painful demise. Thinking fast, Rosary tries to redirect his focus. Introductions have been postponed long enough, anyway.

 

“Allow me to rectify my earlier rudeness; my name is Rosary La’lan, Editdictator of the _Nox Pupali._ It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Tempeste.” Falling into her role, Rosary gives the royal an elegant curtsy.

 

“Huh? Oh! I didn’t even think to ask for your name. Usually strangers just assume that I know who they are because they know who I am. I feel kind of bad. Can we start over?”

 

Shoulders loose, he takes a few steps back and reaches out a hand.

 

“Hi, my name is Jeanne! Please don’t call me by my dumb title or anything other than my name. Shit, what do lowbloods say when they do this?” He says. “Um, It’s.. nice to meet you?”

 

With a small quirk of her black lips, Rosary takes his hand.

 

“Likewise, Jeanne.”

  


///

After their introductions, Rosary asks if Jeanne would like to go see the other exhibits on display, seeing as he too finds himself companionless. This earns her a somewhat hesitant look from the other.

 

She apologizes and asks if he’s waiting on someone else, to which he vehemently denies, ”Haha, nope. Not at all!”

 

Wow, don’t think he even convinced himself with that one. Jeanne takes her hand in his and marches back towards the grand hall.

 

They pass by a few confectioners, swiping a pair of candied fruit sticks while Jeanne slips caegers in the distracted proprietor’s pocket.

Eating their treats, Jeanne points all around to things that catch his eye and makes fun of the Empress’s gaudy taste.

 

Standbarkers call after them to try the latest products that have yet to fully reach the market, falling over hand and foot to get the Tempeste’s stamp of approval. One of them is a perfume made from the proserpine flower of the Danik region. With a calm smile, Rosary tries it on, shoving her delicate wrist under her companion’s nose, making him turn slightly green. Greenish pink? Puce. Whatever, it’s an ugly face.

 

“Guaranteed to make you irresistible to anyone looking to fill a quadrant!” the standbarker assures.

 

“Bluh, I’ll pass!” Jeanne says and heads off to the next display.

 

“Try using some water to dilute the chloroform. Selling poison under the guise of a love potion won’t work if I can still smell it,” she says, with a tiny flick of her tongue.

 

Rosary sighs, handing the vial back to the proprietor. Stuttering, the proprietor nabs the glass and shoos her off before she scares his other customers. With a smirk only a smarmy broad like her could muster, she waves him goodbye.

When Rosary catches up, she see’s Jeanne bouncing up and down, looking at rows upon rows of what appears to be new cinematic releases.

 

“Rosary! Can you believe that three new Thresh Princes have been released in the past three sweeps? I feel so lucky!”

 

They wander up and down the makeshift isles, looking through different genres of filmography; some even created by different species. Rose recognizes them all as some kind of romance or another. However, this next section is unfamiliar.

 

“Oh my gosh, Rosary! Do know what this is?”

 

He shoves a case at her with a strange looking creature featuring a long proboscis and a jutting rump. It’s ass is just sticking out there all impudent and shit. Nasty. The title itself is in an incomprehensible language.

 

“I doubt I’ll have anymore idea even after you explain this cinematic catastrophe to me.”

 

Rosary looks up from her own blackmance fantasy title. Something about two troll gods at eternal war with each other with some vacillation. Cheesy and cliche, but it will do for her needs.

 

“Oh, hush! This is a genuine piece of cinema from the Foam stellar sector! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get these things since the embargo?”

 

“Ah yes, I believe their films were too insensitive with how they portrayed their ‘Liberation’. Are you interested in the subject of intergalactic relations?”

 

“Heck no! I’m not into this history junk or even the movies, but Dirque loves-.” He lowers the case, wrinkling his nose.

 

“Err. You know what? Nevermind.”

 

He puts the evil thing right back where he found it. Thank fuck.

 

Rosary is not enjoying the look on her companion’s face. Without even thinking, she offers her arm to Jeanne.

 

“Come on, let us see what other glorious contributions to society have been made by our supposed elite.”

 

A tiny smile returns to Jeanne’s face.

 

“Weeeelll,” the fuschiablood says with an exaggerated waggle of his brows, “If the lady insists, then I have no choice but to follow!”

 

///

 

The pair takes on a leisurely pace, strolling whilst making small talk and giggling along the way. Jeanne notices his skin is getting a little dry and asks if Rosary also needs a dip in the rehydration pool. She put on an ointment earlier but she’s not going to say _no_ to her mark, are you kidding?

 

There’s a very small section tucked away, meant only for the tiny handful of violetblooded trolls, the Empress and the Heir. It was constructed for this very event and will be taken down once its over. The VIP section of the VIP section, complete with more marble and painstakingly carved details than you’d know what to fucking do with.

 

The main pool has salt water flowing into it from a grand statue shaped like… some kind of sea rocks with anemone growing everywhere? Wow, that is a lot of tentacles. Whatever the thing is, its being fed by smaller decorative fountains that are just as debauched. Rosary takes her time admiring it, the kinky bitch.

 

The lounge is, unsurprisingly, abandoned. Jeanne cannonballs into the pool with a whoop; he makes a show of doing some simple tricks to entertain his audience of one. Backflips are a surefire way into a girl’s collapsing and expanding bladder based aquatic vascular system. It’s practically a science.

 

Yeah, okay. Even Jeanne can admit to himself that he has no idea what he’s doing.

 

Rosary doesn’t appear to mind his playful splish-splashing around; she even gets him back a few times while she sits by the edge of the pool.

 

When Jeanne is taking his time swooping and swirling under the water, Rosary fiddles with her phone. She has a message.

 

_Status update required. Report back Immediately._

 

She checks if Jeanne is still submerged. He is.

 

_What, too shy to say hello? All of my limbs are still attached and my lungs have shown no sign of dysfunction. Our royal mark has exhibited very little signs of hostility thus far, if at all. I will report at greater length later._

 

She doesn't wait more than a few seconds before receiving a response.

 

_You better._

 

Rolling her eyes, she puts the phone away.

 

“Work bugging you?” Jeanne asks, peeking his head out of the water.

 

Time to pull the dangerous half-truth turnaround.

 

“Yes, I specialize in investigative journalism. Our next article is, to an extent, overdue, but I’ve gathered the resources to…” Blah, blah, blah, the Seawitch is a mouthy bitch with her overwrought stories, and the Tempeste is dumb enough to hang onto her every word.

 

“Ugh, lame.”

 

Thanks, Jeanne. Tell her how lame it is. This time without a mouthful of water. Nice.

 

Jeanne starts, “So, about your job…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you umm… enjoy it?”

 

Does she enjoy her job? What even is this douchebag? Out of all of Rosary’s thorough and perfectly tailored responses to questions sitting in the backlog of her mind, she finds herself coming up empty handed.

 

With her silver tongue and a few extra perks from her rich blood color, Rosary tore her way to the top of the Empire’s only officially recognized print, the Nox Pupali. She always had a system of expectations and answers. But nothing now.

 

To be totally honest, she’s surprised her current query hasn’t told her to royally fuck off yet. This. This is new.

 

“I would say I ‘enjoy’ my profession in that it serves a purpose for the benefit of the Empire and its impressionable masses.”

 

Jeanne sighs, “You’re lying.”

 

Dammit.

 

Caught sucking up; this is why Rosary prepares her answers ahead of time, carefully combs through her words-

 

“Is it really that boring?” Jeanne asks.

 

She hesitates.

 

“...Yes.”

 

“Why?!”

 

Is Jeanne mad, he sounds mad. Rosary can’t tell. She chooses her words carefully. “There is quite a volume of detail work.”

 

“I’m just-- why doesn’t anyone like their job?”

 

That’s a very naive way of thinking in this society, and like hell is Rosary gonna disagree with this big fish. Better to ask for his opinion first.

 

“Is this a common inquiry of yours? Might it be overstepping my bounds to ask why you feel so inclined to know about your subjects’ fulfillment in their employment?”

 

“No?”

 

“I can’t quite tell if you’re asking or telling me.”

 

Like the giant wriggler he is, Jeanne opts to throw himself onto his back with a splash.

 

“Why is it that I love what I get to do when everyone else hates their jobs? Am I weird?”

 

Now seems like the time to pull some info out of Jeanne if he’s in a ranty mood. Time to play spongedoc with him.

 

“As the Psicopomp, you mean?”

 

“Duh.”

 

“You’re afraid of being perceived as ‘weird’ by others?”

 

“No, not really. I’m not scared of anything. It’s more like...”

 

Rosary tilts her head, prompting the other to continue.

 

Jeanne seemed to be at war with himself, wracking that maze-like head for what to say next.

 

“I’m kinda bummed about never having any fun again.”

 

Can this guy please start making some gogdamn sense? Please?

 

“I’m not quite following, Jeanne.”

 

“Look, I love what I do, okay? It’s like everytime Feferi gives me a new unregistered psionic with an outstanding warrant, I get to make up a new game with new rules! Every psionic is different so I need to come up with unique traps and stuff for them to fall for. Sometimes a simple disguise and a smile works. Other times I gotta work a little harder to get them into my net. Ugh, I mean trap. Okay, _sometimes_ I do actually use a net, but I swear that wasn’t a fish pun!”

 

“I wholeheartedly believe that thing you just said there.”

 

“Oh, shut up. Feferi lets me do what I want most of the time because, hey, I’m pretty good at it! Sometimes though, I uh..might have a little too much fun with a target or they beat me at my own game? And I might have let one or two of them go? Maybe?”

 

“And It makes you feel guilty?”

 

“Hell no! The hag just didn’t care about it until recently. The thing is, I kinda had this really fun game of catch and release going on with someone for a while, but she stepped in, and the whole game fell apart.”

 

Now that makes her ears perk up.

 

“Oh dear. Was she afraid that this particular psionic would prove a danger to themselves and others? Or perhaps they were a misplaced cullmate. I’m certain that if my mate were to disappear I would be nigh inconsolable.”

 

Gog, saying all this hoofbeast shit is gonna give her an ulcer one day. She’d stab out her own eyes before abiding by that fucked up system.

 

“Nah, it was neither of those things; Feferi just has a massive red-crush on the guy. She knew him from way back, but for some reason she didn’t want me or anyone to make a big stink about it. Whatever. Like I care about who she decides to fill a pail with.”

 

Never forget that damn troll is a living whirlwind.

 

Without any warning, Jeanne jumps from pouty wriggler mode to interrogator. He stands up fully, half raised from the water, and directs every ounce of deadly in his blood on the Seawitch.

 

“That’s why you hate your job.”

 

Rosary swallows, drops a hand to her stabbier needles. She may have to move up her plans.

 

“You don’t care about one word you write. It’s just a giant pile of dumb.”

 

Rosary thinks of a dozen protests but is too stunned to even say one.

 

Jeanne continues, “Why would anyone want to read about Feferi’s latest cull in the Nox Pupali? Or who she likes being friends with? That’s boring! And useless too.”

 

This type of raw emotion, Rosary knows exactly what she needs to say. She takes a wild gamble and ignores her usual script entirely.

 

“You are correct. It should hardly be surprising, but catering to the masses is _dull.”_ She sweeps a claw across the surface of the water. “If anything, I desire rumors of rebellion from unexpected places, scandalously detailed romantic drama about the Empress’s lusus, accounts of murder on the battlefield in the farthest sectors of our ‘glorious Empire.’ My words should stir the hearts of a billion trolls, throw them into a passionate rage, make them wish to see my head mounted on a silver spike, and that is what I intend to do. Anything less doesn’t qualify as newsworthy.”  
  
Rosary is going to get herself killed; she’s fully aware of it. Her words are treasonous, and this is the Heir to the Empire himself. But she sees a thread to chase, something far better than her fearful compagnon d’armes would ever dare seek for in her target. She’s a madwoman, and it’s exactly why she's so good at her job.

 

Jeanne laughs so hard, he doubles over and starts snorting water. What a total dork.

 

“Is- _hack, hack_ -is that it?” The prince has to spit more water from his gills before he can speak properly.

 

The Seawitch scowls like a proper witchy witch. “Yes, ‘that’s it.’ Thank you for belittling my heartfelt confession of my most treacherous desires down to a childish whim.”

 

“Sorry. It’s just kind of a relief, you know? I never thought about just doing stuff anyways. That sounds nice.”

 

“You think so?” Naive, naive, naive.

 

“Yeah. Hey, can I see your phone quick?”

 

A chill crawls up Rosary’s spine. He must want something, more solid proof of her treachy or access to her network. She should’ve continued on with her flimsy lie.

 

“Aww, geeze. Was that rude? I thought that’s how lowbloods do this, but maybe that’s why it’s rude? I’m sorry, Rosary.”

 

He relinquished too quickly. Does he not actually care about whatever his goal is? Perhaps he’s attempting to employ reverse psychology and get her to relent.

 

But he looks so… honest.

 

“Of course not, Jeanne. Here.” She passes the device to him.

 

He’s quick with it, as he said he’d be. With a bright grin, Jeanne gives it back to her. “There! That’s my handle. I’d really like it if you talk to me again! I have to go find Dirque now, and it’d be cool if you came with, but no one ever wants to see Dirque so you probably shouldn’t. He’s kind of scary.”

 

Contact information. And here her boss thought it would take Rosary at least six peregrees to get that.

 

“I don’t mind seeing Dirque.”

 

“Really?!”

 

Excited, Jeanne grabs her hand and leads her up and out of the rehydration pool, her scales and clothes leaving behind most of the water.

 

She’s rather concerned about whomever this is that the Tempeste himself considers “scary.” Fortunately, she doesn't have to meet the mysterious troll.

 

Dirque is no longer at the booth where Rosary first spotted Jeanne. So either the small troll with white hair or the large one in puppet face paint, the Tinkerer and the Stringer. Either could scare the socks off of the Empress herself.

 

Next, they check the robotics aisle and part of the Nursery containing “ponies”, an alien quadruped. No luck there or at the orange faygo fountain. The Seawitch better be figuring out Dirque is the purpleblood right about now, or she gets her inspector gadget badge confiscated.

 

“Any other ideas?” Rosary asks. “Perhaps he’s with the church.”

 

“Oh, gross. No, I bet he’s already at the auditorium. He’s probably super mad I’m not there yet.”

 

“For the Empress’s Address of Victories?”

 

“Yeah! It’s gonna be dumb, but at least its short. I should probably just head back there.”

 

Short one large troll, they walk the rest of the way to the auditorium together. Rosary sends a quick update to her contact. Or quick for her anyways.

 

_Following evaluation of character, I have concluded that I would prefer to recruit the target rather than schedule observation or assassination. If you have any contentions with this proposal, please do stop to consider my previous successes and credentials. Thank you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not Jeanne's party, but he'll castrate you if he wants to.

Jeanne waves cheerily as his new friend leaves to find a seat. He still can’t believe Rosary is so great. No really. She is super interesting, the same age as him, almost ten percent genuine about stuff, and she probably doesn’t even want to kill him! Kinda reminds him of a cute hopbeast that lives beneath a bramble bush. A very sharp, pokey bramble bush. Probably with a catch somewhere.

 

Oh well. They can talk after the ceremony.

 

Right now, Jeanne needs to go sit on his dumb chair in front of a dumb crowd to present his dumb catch before he ruins his own dumb life.

 

Only one other soul is unlucky enough to be on display with him; his name is Sollux. Hehe, soul and-

 

Forget that guy. Jeanne is really nervous. He’s never spoken in front of so many people before, and he could literally drown someone if he fucks up enough. The HIC wouldn’t like that.

 

Speaking of which, old seasalt herself has finally made an appearance. Jeanne has no idea how the Empress is so bouncy despite being weighed down by a hundred pounds of fabric and thousands of sweeps of culling. Between her flowing gown and miles of hair, she smothers everything within a ten foot radius. There is no escaping her motherly death aura.

 

“Hiya, Je-anne! I hope things are going swimmingly for you at the fe-stival!”

 

“Yeah! There is a cool ghostbusting .ATH~ code on display.”

 

She pats him on the head. “I’m glad. You’re absolutely adorabubble when you get EXCIT--ED! Where’s your retainer at?”

 

Uh. Shit, he had no idea. It shouldn’t be hard to see a tall brute like Dirque even in this crowd.

 

“He’ll be right back. Dumb time for a respite break, right?”

 

Jeanne sends a quick text reminding Dirque and Roxxie where their seats are and that the ceremony is starting- oh, right now.

 

It's time for the Empress to address her guests from above. Keeping her separated from the general public are the empire’s most elite soldiers and her personal entourage.

 

The whole gang's here, Frowny Fins, Annoying Clown, Snooty McFussyfangs and Old Bag.

 

Not the best nicknames but remembering their names can be a bit tedious. But, really. These are way better, Jeanne thinks.

 

The HIC clears her throat. With a start, Jeanne looks from the empress’s personal army to the clock. The ceremony should’ve started seven minutes ago. Shit.

 

This is Jeanne’s fealty ceremony: he’ll be murdered in his sleep by the pirates if he screws this up or looks weak. Between them and the Empress, someone’s going to break something real soon. There was already a new set of scratch marks on the armrest of the throne.

 

Jeanne grabs Frowny Fins and hisses,  _ “Where is the master of ceremonies?” _

 

Frowny taps his stupid, pointy chin in thought. “You know, I haven’t seen Snowbl since the pepper eating contest. Want me to call her, my Prince?”

 

Jeanne walks away without answering. Snowbl is definitely the troll that was under the acid tank in the tech exhibit when it broke. (When Jeanne broke it.)

 

Shit, dammit, dammit, dammit, where is Dirque? He would know exactly what to do. Threaten to smash skulls, interrogate, smooth talk, maybe set off some explosives. You know, scare every last scrap of shit out of everyone in the general vicinity.

 

Okay.

 

Jeanne grabs the nearest person holding a clipboard and yells, “I need an itinerary right now, or I’ll smash open some smooth talk with a boom, got it?”

 

Clipboard dude grabs someone wearing only glitter and gauze who grabs another troll carrying grub-cupcakes.

 

From her throne, the Compasse looks on, lips thin with annoyance.

 

Eighteen minutes in, and Jeanne finally has the itinerary in his hands. Now he just needs a new MC.

 

Uh. Okay, he only knows four people that have a high enough standing to address the crowd. Three not counting the Empress, two if the stupid clown is high- he probably is. That left the pirategeneral with the stupid wheeze that the Empress hates- quite platonically- and her former adventurefriend that the HIC certainly hates in a decidedly non-platonic way.

 

Shit. Guess he’s doing this himself.

 

Jeanne takes to center stage, itinerary in hand. Dirque and Roxxie’s chairs are still empty. He takes a deep breath. Showtime.

 

Introduce the guests, starting with the crowd as a whole. Absolutely do not call the hag a hag.

 

“Good aftermidnight and welcome everyone. As the most distinguished members of our great mother hagraven’s clutch, thank you for attending the 612th Jubilee of Her Inexhaustible Compassion.”

 

Pause for applause. The crowd’s response is good. Of course, what else are they going to do? Boo him off stage? They could but not without incurring the wrath of the HIC. Or himself.

 

Okay. Okay he can do this. 

 

“Thanks so much! I’m honored to have your attendance tonight. Who else is more worthy to celebrate with Her Benevolence? Nobody!”

 

“Please, if you might look around for a moment,” Jeanne reads blankly from his sheet, “Take in all that you see, the splendor, technology, and feelings of interspecies unity.” Gog, kill him now. “These and more are all thanks to you, dear guests. You, acting as the rudders guiding the glorious empire, made all of this possible.”

 

Next section: introduce the worst of the worst, the big bads.

 

“However, none of us, not our most Holy Brethren, the Gardener-“ Jeanne points out the troll as though his mass isn’t obvious. Hot. “-nor our venerated Admiral-“ Much scrawnier guy, definitely needs pointing to. Also hot. “-our great Mistress of the Mother Grub-“ She’s dangerous and well trimmed, her presence announces itself. Even hotter. “-our young yet promising Heir-“

 

The narrator definitely finds the Heir hot too, no surprises there. Jeanne himself is more concerned with why he’s listed as one of the big bads.

 

Err, anyways- “No, not even myself. None of us could take a single breath of life if not for the crown jewel of the empire. Gentletrolls, I give you the Empress, Her Inexhaustible Compassion.” Most dangerous, most royal, definitely hottest.

 

With a sweeping bow Jeanne moves to the side for the Empress to take her place center stage.

 

The Compasse addresses the crowd like a schoolfeeder talks to children. “H—ello everybody! You all look so cute today. Thanks for coming to my littl-e party. These past sweeps, we’ve had oh so many wonders to find and share.”

 

The great troll waves to her highest officers. “Our most recent nurturing -exp—edition has gone absolutely swimmingly! Over a thousand asteroids in the poppingflower asteroid belt are now part of Beforus, including extensive culling for the indigenous creatures found there. A few samples can be found in my Nurs-ery if you haven’t checked it out already!”

 

“This success is all thanks to our dedicated, loyal members of the Imperial Expedition forces, now over eighteen million strong. L-et’s clap for them!”

 

Expedition force as in deadly military. Stupid, lying hag. Jeanne claps.

 

“Now! I have a very sp---ecial guest I’d like you all to meet!”

 

The Empress presents a mass of organics and tubing that loosely counts as a troll. Captor, he is a famous rebel. Was. Fuck.

 

“This is my n-ew cullmate Sollux! Please give him a super warm welcome today.”

 

The captive mutters, the audience applauds, the Admiral covers his eyes.

 

“Thank you so much to -everyone that’s helped take care of our cullmates. MediSafe Inc. Co. made a new breakthrough last sweep that lets us convert psionic energy into a non-visible light. Isn’t that just fascinating?!”

 

Captor grunts. Poor half-dead sucker would rather growl, but he’s too exhausted even for that.

 

Hey, he can probably see ghosts. Would he turn down a blowjob from a ghost? Daveed hasn’t had any action since-

 

Not that anyone will ever know. Right now, the Empress has the spotlight.

 

“Thanks to this discovery, we can provide better treatment for lowblood trolls like Sollux. They no longer have to suffer quite so much, and they won’t be a constant danger to themselves! Thanks MediSafe!”

 

Time to start clapping, audience.

 

“I’d also like to thank my little guppy for bringing Sollux home. Say hi Jeanne!”

 

Jeanne waves.

 

“Always glad I can help, Empress.”

 

His line done, Jeanne stops paying attention. He twiddles his thumbs, trades a few sad looks with Sollux, and sends a servant for some champain. It’s pretty weak as far as fizzy drinks go, but it will do.

 

Sigh.

 

///

 

The Big Stink has been going on and on, and that pair of seats in the front row is still empty. Where the fuck is that useless piece of shit? This, this is Jeanne’s big moment, where is he, did he just leave, does he really care that little-

 

A soft clearing of a throat startles him out of his spiraling thoughts.

 

The Compasse levels him with an expectant look.

 

Fuck. Fuck her. Fuck Dirque, fuck L’londe, and fuck this.

 

He wills himself to kneel before the Compasse, slow and jerky. His neck is bared.

 

“I, Jeanne Berget, Heir to the Beforian Empire and Tempeste, do hereby abdicate the right of my blood to contend for the throne.”

 

Not that he had it in the first place.

“Thus, I pray that her Benevolence accepts my humble services and fealty until the day I can no longer fulfill my duties as Psicopomp to the Empire.”

 

Of fucking course she’ll accept, this whole thing was her idea, the conniving bitch. Jeanne wouldn’t be here at all if not for her.

 

Gog, if she doesn’t accept, anyone in this room is allowed to raze him on the spot.

 

A hand rests itself on his shoulder

 

“Rise Tempeste.”

 

He does so.

 

///

 

Ugh, how did that whole thing only take an hour? Five audience members died of boredom, and another ten used body disposal as an excuse to leave.

 

Trolls scatter to the winds. Ceremony over, they can get back to partying. Jeanne isn’t sure he’s up for any more of the Jubilee though. He feels pretty defeated, and his skull aches something awful.

 

It takes several minutes of crowd navigating for Dirque and Roxxie to find Jeanne. Fortunately, the younger troll stands out with all his jewels. Not to mention he’s sitting in a fountain pouting.

 

The Stringer crouches next to him.

 

“Hey. I saw yer renouncement. Ye did good, kid. Should keep the Empress’s supporters off our backs for awhile.”

 

Jeanne gnashes his teeth.

 

“Woah, settle down there. Ye ain't a wriggler.”

 

“Diiiiiiiirque, you guys were late! What the hell, man?”

 

He looks up at them. Roxxie is beaming and Dirque isn't wearing any face paint.

 

“Sorry about that! We had some stuff to clean up at the stand; it was a HUGE pain,” Roxxie apologizes. “We made it with plenty o’ time for ur speech, dw bb!”

 

The Tempeste says, “I brought my new friend to the stand. You guys weren’t there.”

 

The Stringer isn’t wearing any of his puppet paint. Jeanne stands up and extricates himself from the fountain. He gets a proper look at Dirque’s rumpled clothes.

 

“I had to open the ceremony, and it was a complete disaster. Dirque…”

 

///

 

Aw, shit caught in the act. After the act. Close enough. The Stringer isn’t wearing a speck of facepaint, and the spoiled prince knows exactly why: a hot glob o’ momma L’londe’s flavor smeared all over his lips, and the dumbass didn’t have any time to redo that creepy ass puppet makeup.

 

Whelp, there goes the legendary temper of the Tempeste. It’s getting hella windy in here.

 

Jeanne starts yelling at Roxxie. “What do you think you’re doing?! This is a super important day for me, and you just steal my- uh, mine? You two aren’t even in a real quadrant! That’s super gross and it’s not even the right season and who the fuck do you- you- dammit, you’re just a DUSTY OLD PAIL, AND-”

 

The air stills all at once when the Tempeste is backhanded with enough force to drop him right back on his ass.

 

Every gogdamn standbarker and guest still in the auditorium forgets how to use their articulation noodles. The Tinkerer lets out a sharp gasp.

 

Oh shit.

 

The brat just sits there dumbfounded with one hand on his throbbing cheek. Fuck, that thing is gonna swell. Arms folded, Dirque stares at him impassively just like any old, regular day back at the seaside haunt. All the days _ before  _ today, in private.

 

Through the silence, it’s not hard to catch the words whispered by the GHB on the far side of the crowd. “Littlest matryoshka mine, devotee a my own humble worship.” 

 

Shit shit oh shit

 

“WHO DO YOU MOTHER FUCKIN THINK YOU ARE ALL UP AND LAYIN A HAND ON THE VOICE OF OUR MOST SACRED MOTHER.”

 

“The holder a Life never once chose such a tiny lil cup to up and pour her color into, not from the first pop of rainbow fizz to the last breath a motherfucker took before his new, empty-eyed life.”   
  
“AND YOU JUST-”

 

“That will be all, Gamz, thank you!” The Empress says with strained cheer, clapping her hands together. Gog, angry looks real ugly on that troll.

 

She looks between Jeanne and Dirque from her throne where she was meeting with guests, as if waiting for a pair of wrigglers to confess to starting a fight.

 

“Well now, this simply won’t do,” The Compasse sighs. Too many bucks worth of jewels tinkle with each shake of her head.

 

“On your feet, Tempeste."

 

Jeanne looks up from his place on the ground to meet her gaze, glancing once at his big, dumb retainer.

 

“Yes, your Benevolence.” 

 

Whelp, too late for the kid to save any face now. Still, props to him biting his tongue. He stands and holds himself tall as he can, strong.

 

“R-eely now, Stringer, the Jubilee was going along just swimmingly; I must say I am rath-er disappointed in you.” 

 

Oh my gog, what a cond-escending bitch.

 

“However, it appears that my Beloved has grown weary with all of today’s excit-ement. It’s time for us to retire,” she says with the most fake yawn that you ever did hear. Gentle sensibilities my ass. She’s just not interested in how this petty bullshit plays out.

 

(It’s amazing that she can decipher grunts and groans from her mottled troll into complete sentences like that. What a gal.)

 

“I trust you to know what needs to be done, Tempeste,” she says this with a nod towards the GHB who gives a lazy smirk in turn. He’s on the far side of two buffet lines and a display, but it’s still too fucking close to Dirque. 

 

Jeanne tries to hold back a sneer.

 

With that, the Empress absconds the fuck outta there with her boy toy/sex slave in tow.

 

Classy as always. 

 

Coming out of the goddamn void, two elite laughassassins start to close in on Dirque, who subtly maneuvers himself between them and Roxxie. The idiot would rather be fucking shelled and gutted himself before letting anything happen to his witty, old friend. (Using Roxxie’s own stealth tech against her, that’s just fucking cheap.)

 

Fortunately for him, or not really, the other purplebloods ignore the trembling Tinkerer and proceed to wrestle Dirque into kneeling in front of the Tempeste. He struggles out of pure impulse; the futility of an actual strife within the heart of the Empress’s social circle is apparent even to the youngest wriggler.

 

Roxxie cries out for her pailmate but is snagged by some loyalist douches in the crowd. Thank fuck she’s tugged out of range by the time the GHB limbers on over.

 

The clown is a giant, towering over Dirque even without the guy being forced to kneel.

 

“Keep the blue-fingered bitch from gettin’ all up in our jam,” the GHB commands, “LEST THIS HERETIC DECIDES TO PULL SOME MORE MOTHERFUCKING FOOLISHNESS.”

 

The ornery troll grabs a handful of Dirque’s hair and  _ yanks.  _ “I’ve been lookin forward to this most bitchin of all days my invertebrother.” 

 

Dirque gets prodded in the cheek by a juggling club with each word. 

 

“BEEN THIRSTEN’ FOR SOME A THAT GRAPE FLAVORED SWILL PUMPIN’ THROUGH YOUR VEINS.”

 

Dirque keeps his mouth clamped shut through the myriad of insults being hurled at him. Time-tempered stoicism is all that stands between defending his pride and honest to gog panicking.

 

His harasser leans in to whisper in Dirque’s ear. “One motherfucker to another, the Church’s ears will do a righteous jig, all havin’ the miracle child back in our favor and far from motherfuckin your filthy grabsticks. Blessed are those for whom the Voice sings.”

 

The GHB winds up his club, more like a sportsball player than an executioner.

 

_ “Stop!” _

 

The sudden blast of air pressure causes countless champain flutes to shatter; they cascade to the ground like tiny stars. 

 

More importantly, the jugglefucko’s startled ass misses his mark by a nautical mile, which is to say, a normal land mile. Dirque stares at the club planted firmly in the ground with a cocktail of relief and confusion.

 

The GHB takes a moment to recollect himself.

 

“WHO DARES TO GET ON ABOUT STOPPIN THIS PIOUS MOTHERFUCKER FROM LAYIN DOWN THE HIGH JUSTICE?”

 

///

 

The Tempeste steps forward in slow, measured steps. Shoulders back, he tries to mask the way his muscles are tensed with an authoritative visage. Really though, it doesn’t take a blind prophet to smell right through the farce. Shit could be seen without a telescope from the farthest reaches of the Empire.

 

The entire scene is a blur through Jeanne’s wide eyes. He’s so pissed, he can barely even see the Stringer despite looking straight at him.

 

When he gets close enough to the GHB, he has to lean back in order to level the monster with a proper “you dun fucked up bigtime” look. 

 

“What,” Jeanne lets out a shaky breath, “are you doing?”

 

The ancient troll suddenly looks half as tall and half as old, stammering excuses to his own feet.

 

“I  _ said,” _ the Tempeste hisses, “what are you  _ doing?” _

 

“Poor excuse for a troll ain’t never give a care if the Empress burns. All down and committing treason like it’s no breakfast, this swill is due and overdue for an executin.”

 

“When did I give you that order? Guess what, dumbass? I didn’t!”

 

The great clown attempts to apologize.

 

“No! Too late bucko. Now shoo! I’ll deal with it.”

 

Damn is it funny seeing the GHB retreat like a wriggler with his eggshell still covering his back. 

 

Not that it was really a victory. No amount of school feeding in rhetoric could prepare Jeanne’s sorry ass to whip this crowd back into shape. They were all as bloodthirsty as the GHB, ready for a kill. Those goddamn pirates in back- shit, after what Jeanne did to them, they’ll have  _ his _ head over any goddamn clown. Not even his mentor nor the Compasse could stop them now.

 

They’re all fucking dead, and Dirque will be first at his younger lover’s own hands, fuck fuck fuck fuck.

 

It’s too early for him to be embracing the big sleep, the lazy fucker isn’t even on his fifth molt yet.

 

Damn it all,  _ do something. _

 

In a whirlwind of motion, the Tempeste spins and slams a heel against the kneeling troll’s chest. Dirque wheezes.

 

“Aww, this is fucking lame, making me all mad on my big day. Humor me instead, Stridr. Make me laugh, and we’ll call it square, m’kay?”

 

Dirque spits at Jeanne. The laughsassin holding him down barely moves out of the way before the Tempeste viciously claws at the older troll’s shoulder.

 

“THAT WASN’T FUNNY AT ALL,” Jeanne screams.

 

“What were ye expectin’? Can’t exactly dance like a climbbeast with these pieces of shit tryin’ to rip my arms right outta the shell.”   
  
“Guess you’ll have to use the rest of your body, won’t you?” The Tempeste speaks in a singsong voice, but his expression is stormy.

 

“Hey, Stringer,” he chirps, “Do you know what’s just the  _ funniest  _ thing?”

 

“No use in guessin’ the musin’s of a lunatic.”

 

“Hehe, I probably should just take your head since you’re not using it today!” Jeanne leans on Dirque’s head with all his body weight.

 

“Though, playing with dead bodies isn’t really my thing; that’s pretty gross. Besides, it’s no fun when they don’t squirm!”

 

With a sigh, he gives Dirque a few harsh pats.

 

“Anyyyyyyyyway, I was just thinking that you guys actually got me pretty good! Sneaking off during my renouncement of the throne when I thought you’d be at my side? Gotta admit I wasn’t expecting that one! Not bad.”

 

The false cheer in Jeanne’s voice caused the muscles beneath the Stringer’s skin to tense.

 

“And when I saw you, gosh did I ever feel dumb!” Jeanne smiles. “I wish I could have seen the look on my face!” 

 

“The only thing that would make this even funnier is if  it was a thing you did all the time without telling me! Treat me like a total fool. You know, like being the guy that gives all his stuff out and doesn't save any for his actual matesprit. But I’m sure nothing like that happened when you apparently visited L’londe.”

 

His hysterical grin widens.

 

“Now wouldn’t-”

 

A rough, hardy laugh cuts the ranting royal off. It comes deep from the belly and loosed without abandon.

 

“WHAT IN THE MOTHERFUCK IS SO GOGDAMNED FUNNY, MOTHERFUCKER?”

 

For once, Jeanne is grateful for the obnoxious clown because right now he finds himself fucking speechless. Instead, he lifts a hand to signal the GHB to settle down.

 

The Stringer continues his laughing fit for all to see, not even attempting to regain his composure. The Tempeste finds his patience whittling down to nothing. That is, if he had anything to shave down with a whittle to begin with.

 

“I’m a little jealous, Stringer,” Jeanne pouts, “Wanna be nice and let us in on the joke?”

 

Dirque shakes his head while trying and failing to get a word out.

 

This time Jeanne’s strike is much more methodical than his earlier outburst. 

 

“Answer the question, Traitor,” he says cooly.

 

Dirque wheezes and makes an attempt to compose himself.

 

“Ha ha, fuck. The Tempeste will hafta forgive me. It’s just that its been a long fuckin’ time since these ears laid witness t’something so amusing.”

 

“Wow, that doesn’t answer my question at all!”

 

Said troll looks up to give a shit eating grin and says,  “T’s fine by me, not like I ever took yer ass seriously anyway.  _ Matesprit.” _

 

Jeanne punches Dirque in the abdomen, a well placed strike that makes the Stringer suck wind.

 

“I take back what I said about you being good at jokes. Sheesh, what a stinker.”

 

“Uckin’ hayurgutz”.

 

“What?” Jeanne heard him, but...

 

“I said,” Dirque pants, “That I fuckin’ hate yer guts.”

 

Jeanne recoils. Yeah, he’s probably starting to shut down, suppression rates at 110%.

 

“I always thought yer holdin’ my spades on reserve. Sides, I’ve been tradin’ red buckets for the drones with Rox for yer whole life. If ye have a problem, take it up with the Empress. Ain’t my fuckin’ breeding law.”

 

In all his fourteen sweeps, never before had Jeanne felt something so raw, so intense as the sheer loathing he feels for all trollkind than in this exact moment. The weight of having all eyes on him suddenly feels like too much and he wants them all to go the fuck  _ away _ . 

 

Face flushed hot, he wants to scream and howl until every last one of them are sunken miles underneath the cold, ocean waves. Through the deafening haze, he can barely string a coherent thought together, nonetheless formulate a proper sentence. The anger is always easier to hold on to rather than acknowledging the icy lump sitting deep in his stomach. 

 

Dirque closes his eyes and waits for the moment his lungs will be crushed like a can of Tab from the inside. To let it finally be fucking over and done with.

 

“Huh, that kinda sucks, I guess.”

 

What-

 

When he opens his eyes, the Tempeste stands before him looking more concerned with what’s under his sharp claws than the lover who just rejected him.

 

“I mean, it’s kind of obvious?  _ Really _ not using your thinkpan today!”

 

“The fuck you on about?”

 

“Heh, even if I was allowed to fill a pail, do you think it matters which one it would be?”

 

Jeanne cards a too gentle hand in his ‘unfaithful’ lover’s hair. Dirques tries to repress a shudder.

 

“You’re mine, duh. You promised yourself to me when you took my ring. Every stupid strand of hair down to your puppet loving toes.”

 

Jeanne clenches another hand around Dirque’s throat.

 

“Even the air you breathe is mine.”

 

The kiss is less of a kiss and more of a mashing of lips together. Jeanne doesn’t bother with any foreplay, forcing his partner’s mouth open. He tastes like a salty, dark wine; like L’londe.

 

Dirque grunts and tries to pull away, but finds himself caught in the iron grip of the Tempeste. It feels like the fuschiablood is trying to devour him whole; sucking face is a bit too literal here.

 

Jeanne growls lowly when Dirque refuses to respond, doesn’t give in to the brat’s games. That is, until the Stringer finds his very breath being pulled from him.

 

Dirque thrashes wildly. The former-Heir, even aided by the two laughassassins, barely keeps a hold of him. It’s enough to break the kiss. Dirque is left wheezing. Between the earlier punches to his gut and the partial collapse of his lungs, he doesn’t have a chance to recover before the Tempeste is on him again.

 

It feels kind of empty? Dirque is right. Whatever kissing a matesprit is supposed to be like, this isn’t it. Actually, it kinda sucks. The Stringer is supposed to be this strong, invincible guy that knows all kinds of stuff about grubware and history that Jeanne looks up to, and he’s just taking a beating. Jeanne pulls back to make a small ‘tsk’.

 

“Were you always this lame?”

 

“...ye piece a… shit. I’m fuckin’... gonna tear your throat out.”

 

That’s it, no more breathing privileges for mister tough guy. Guess he’ll have to find another way to make Jeanne laugh.

 

Around them the crowd is getting restless, their whispers have risen to agitated murmurs. They want to see “justice” play out and not this C graded red-black vacillation flick. Black-pale? Whatever, too bad for them; Jeanne has always had trouble separating work from leisure. They’ll get what he fucking gives them.

 

But he’s wasted enough time.

 

The Tempeste turns from his query, who is very busy seizing up on the ground.

 

He sends for a servant to bring the richest Threshicutioner he can find.

 

The troll bows. “It would be an honor to complete the execution for you.”

 

“Just give me your sickle and go.”

 

Inspecting the weapon he receives, Jeanne deems it appropriately ornate. He turns to face the crowd.

 

The Stringer’s lessons are trained into his very blood; Jeanne knows he has to make a show of power if he doesn’t want to die today, make up for the moment of weakness he showed when he was hit. He hates that part of himself suddenly, hates that the dirty troll is still protecting him even now.

 

He addresses the ravenous crowd. “As my first official duty as the humble representative of our benevolent Empress, I must pass judgement upon this poor, misguided soul.”   
  


Dirque is glaring from the floor, still trying to suck in air. His complexion is going a bit funnylike.

 

“But, I musn’t let my own grievances, justified as they may be, cloud the teachings of Her Inexhaustible Compassion.”

 

“Were it up to me, I would have slaughtered this wretch for his act of high treason against our noble Empire- in front of the Empress on the night of her Jubilee no less.”

 

“In my studies I have often read that justice must be swift, and that justice must be passionless in its execution. However, those ideals once held by our ancestors have no place in the present if our people are to escape from the injustices of the past. No, in our reborn society, there can be no justice without love.”

 

The Stringer is spasming.

 

“Thus, there will be no death to taint this day dedicated to the bright future that no doubt awaits our Empire and those that shall be taken under its wing.”

 

“Are you ready to accept the mercy of the Empress, Stringer?”

 

Jeanne turns back to Dirque. The troll isn’t really moving anymore.

 

Oh. Whoops

 

With a soft hum, the Tempeste urges the ocean breeze to fill his query’s lungs. Kind of hard to spare someone if they’re already dead. (He can’t die.)

 

Dirque doesn’t stop coughing. No more banter then. At Jeanne’s command, he’s pulled upright by the laughsassins.

 

The Tempeste has a pillow placed before the Stringer. Feigning grace, he kneels on the pillow and places a hand over Dirque’s abdomen.

 

(Dirque  _ can’t _ die.)

 

“Here forth, you are completely and totally banned from stamenation, neither for drone collection nor for anything else, with or without partners, and you will be completely pardoned. Sound good?”

 

Stupid Stridr is trying to snicker at him through coughs. Yeah, yeah, the big, horny guy will break the ban within an hour if he can; Jeanne already knows that. Dumbass. He knows what he’s doing.

 

Leaning so the audience can see, Jeanne splays his claws over the Stringer’s pants. He traces a stripe to the top and tugs them down. The front is left shredded.

 

Dirque is so shocked, he stops laughing and coughing all at once. If his muscles were tense before, now they’re taught as a jack ready to spring from his box. If only Dirque was still wearing his dumb clown makeup, then it’d be a perfect analogy.

 

And they wouldn’t be here at all. 

 

Fuck, Jeanne couldn’t think straight. Focus. Finish this one task, then he can rest.

 

“You. Go get a claw file.”

 

Another servant runs off and returns with a set of tools. Dirque- and a number of other fools- watch closely while the Tempeste has the claws on his left hand filed down to harmless bumps. He takes off his rings.

 

A drop of sweat falls.

 

Jeanne is completely expressionless. With his left hand, he cradles Dirque’s bone and runs a clawless finger over the curve of his nook. The little seaworm has the  _ audacity  _ to lay claim to the  _ Stringer. _

 

“Ye wouldn’... fuckin’ dare.”

 

Jeanne curls a finger in him, brushing along the front wall of his former-lover’s nook.

 

For the first time in sweeps, Dirque genuinely feels the creep of terror in the pit of his stomach, crawling up his spine. There’s not a chance in hell he’ll be aroused enough for foul play. He’s been courted and challenged hundreds of times, this is  _ nothing.  _ Every second of his life has been a fight.

 

Dirque can feel light pressure on the underside of his sheath through his nook, a technique he taught this insane troll himself. With constant strokes, the pressure increases until his bulge feels like it needs to move or be crushed. It starts to slide out.

 

Shit, no. Dirque twists his arms and kicks his legs. The gog fuckin clowns are prepared for it. Crazy one manacles his wrists and crazy two sits on his shins until a third troll can secure him. His arms are pulled up while his legs are tugged down and spread apart with a bar. Leather straps are added so he can’t unbend his knees. He doesn’t have an inch of leeway. 

 

Job done, the clowns completely disappear from sight.

“Dammit, Jeanne, if ye move another toe, yer fuckin’ dead twice over. Ye hear me? This is business for the strifing platform; get yer gogdamned skull back on yer neck plates. Stop.” He keeps yelling.

 

It’s almost like Jeanne can’t even hear him. The seadweller resumes coaxing out Dirque’s bulge with careful movements. The tip pokes out, but he holds the rest in. The pressure is absolutely unbearable.

 

The thought of belonging to some damned wriggler shouldn’t get him so worked up.

 

The fingers of Jeanne’s right hand make a loop and brush against the sensitive tip. Dirque’s bulge tries to slip inside the loop only to have it drawn away slowly. Shit fuck grist, where did that trick come from?

 

He never submits. His very breath is a sweet little fuck-you to everyone that thinks he should die like a gutterbeast. Always fighting for himself. For Daveed.

 

Having someone else responsible for that again, someone with more power and status than the terrifying Stringer- he didn’t know what to do, he fucked up, and now he’s at the Tempeste’s mercy regardless.

 

Dirque completely loses control. He growls as his muscles unclench and his bulge follows Jeanne’s hand farther and farther. The former-Heir finally allows his right hand to be caught and wrapped up.

 

His left is drawn out of Dirque’s nook, leaving a painfully empty feeling, then strokes Dirque’s bulge. It’s swollen and tense. Fuck.

 

Jeanne reaches for his sickle. The metal is dark, reflecting no light as it’s raised up. He has this intense look of concentration Dirque has seen Jeanne wear while kneeling between his legs before. The deep, shiny pink of his bitten lip matches the bruise on his cheek. His mouth is so  _ close- _

 

It takes two hacks from the curved blade to cut through the muscle and skin. Blood dark as ink spills over Jeanne’s hands, and the dying bulge squeezes his wrist and curls around his arm. Dirque screams, an awful deep scream that’ll never really leave Jeanne’s night terrors.

 

Everything is in pain. A feminine shriek reaches his ears.

 

The Stringer blacks out.

 

Jeanne stares blankly at his limp form. Still breathing. Bleeding a lot. The pillow Jeanne kneels on is completely soaked, his hands are painted black from claw to elbow. He should… do something? If he tries to speak, he’s going to sob.

 

McFussyfangs steps in. No one questions her lower blood status, not against her tone of command. “Get a stretcher and a guard, and Do Not allow him to bleed to Death. Further, Put a guard on the Tinkerer. Keep the damned Clowns Off of her. Any complaints can be sent Directly To Me.”

 

Jeanne is pulled to his feet and led away, a gentle hand on his shoulder. That’s way too close to his neck, and he doesn’t even care.

 

He doesn’t see as medical care is given to the Stringer. He’s only vaguely aware of the people around him. It’s a handful of his guard and the Tinkerer.

 

Oh. That’s her hand on his shoulder. Is she going to kill him?

 

They walk for awhile.

 

Jeanne is being sat down at the bed in his guest room. Huh.

 

Roxxie takes his wrist in her hands. It takes her fifteen minutes to get the thing to let go of him. Bulge. Dirque’s. He doesn't pay attention to what Roxxie does with it.

 

He’s filthy, covered in blood. The woman wipes away as much as she can with a damp cloth. His ears are ringing, and she speaks quietly.

 

“Jeanne, do you want to send out your guards now?”

 

He does.

 

He thinks he asks Roxxie a question, but he’s not sure. He does know he’s baring his neck in shame.

 

“Oh honey, no. This is my fault, okay? You just sit right down and get some rest.”

 

It is her fault. Jeanne thinks he wants to kill her. He doesn’t resist as he’s laid down and given sopor.    
  
“I have to go take care of that big, stinky moirail of mine, okay? You just text me if you need anything.”   
  
Just like that, the Tinkerer leaves him alone.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ty for reading!! <3


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